The Blades of GaladHirrim
by RangerAragorn
Summary: A small force of Orcs and Uruk-Hai have invaded a corner of Gondor. Can the town of Galad-Hirrim hold?


The Blades of Galad-Hirrim  
  
By: Jedianakinsolo  
  
The sun slowly sank in the western sky. Delassen Misttess gazed at it, but released the approaching thought quickly. He had no want for the Undying Lands. His place was in middle earth, though the time of the elves was past. He turned away and notched another arrow. He knew he'd never be as good as that great elf Legolas, but he'd get as close as possible. He could hit a leaf at two hundred forty yards, but he wanted better. The Orcs were nearly gone, but you could never know when the need for an expert archer may arise. He drew the bow, and spotted an un-harmed leaf. His experienced eye automatically assessed the distance at two hundred sixty yards. He fired. The arrow's flight was true, and the leaf split. A split second later he notched another arrow, sighted another at two hundred fifty-eight yards and fired. Again, the leaf was hit. Twelve more shots, and he was satisfied. He could consistently hit anything at two hundred sixty yards. Pleased with five hours work, he turned, glanced at the setting sun, and then left. His home, one of the nicest in Galad-Hirrim, a small town in Gondor, wasn't far, and he reached it quickly. He opened the door, then paused as the loneliness filtered in to him. So many elves had left for the west. He was the last in Galad-Hirrim. His friends had left already, and more elves were leaving every day. He sighed, then put his bow away, on it's shelf, a beautiful hand crafted one. He turned, found his elvish blades, again, made by him, and picked them up. Then, sliding the belt holding their sheaths around his shoulders, he went into another room and got a leather bag, then carried it outside. He hooked it on a tree, then stepped back. No, he wanted to do more. He went inside and got three more, and hung them on different trees and branches so they were in four different places, looking like a square. Then he flipped a nearby hourglass. Then he stepped into the middle. He closed his eyes, took a deep refreshing breath, relaxed and let it out. His eyes flashed open and he suddenly drew in his blades from their sheaths on his back. He stepped, slashed, spun and completed his turn, slicing again, splitting one leather bag into three pieces. Then he spun, kicked out, then threw a blade into the bag's "face". The bag swung back from the kick, and he pulled out his blades. He spun again, twirled one blade and stabbed behind him, then he threw the other blade into the remaining bag's "chest". He drew the blade out from the bag behind him and then drew the other. He glanced at the hour glass. Not counting the time it took him to relax, it had only been three and a half seconds. He smiled. That was fast, and no Orc would ever see it coming. But the bags were still spilling sand. He glanced around. The area in which he stood was full of sand. He dumped the rest of the sand out of the bags, then took them inside, where he stitched them together again. He could sew well, and fast, and he'd had practice. All ten bags were stitched more than he could count.  
  
The next day he woke late, and stepped outside. It was a beautiful day. Two boys played in the streets, with small wooden swords. Delassen smiled at the youths. One swung hard, the other blocked, then swung, and nailed the other's fingers. The other boy bit back the pain, tossed the sword to the other hand, swung down, parried another blow, then stabbed forward, and stopped the tip of the blade a half of an inch from the other boy's stomach. The boy smiled, and the defeated laughed, and the two shook hands. The nearby boys applauded their little friend's skill. Delassen got down on one knee. "Boy, yes, you" he added when the boy looked at him. The boy ran over. "What is your name?" Delassen kindly asked. "Arathor, based after our great King's father." Delassen nodded. "You fight well. And I noticed when your fingers were hit, you held back the pain and anger, and fought just as well with your left" The boy smiled. "My father thinks I'm destined as the best soldier in Gondor. I can beat any boy within five years of my age in Galad-Hirrim." The elf smiled. "I believe it. Where did you learn that?" "My father taught me when we play. He used to be a soldier of Gondor." "You must of inherited it." "He thinks so too." Delassen smiled. "Well, I just wanted to congratulate you. You work hard, and you may become a Fountain Guard." The boy smiled, and a hope sparkled in his eyes. "Thank you." Delassen patted the boy on the shoulder and stood, then watched as the boy ran off to play. Over the weeks, and days, Arathor and Delassen became closer, and soon Delassen was taking the boy hunting and on his archery practices. The boy was fascinated with the elven way of fighting, and watched in awe as Delassen slashed apart the leather bags with a speed and dexterity that amazed the youth. The weeks passed by. Till one day Delassen was dueling with Arathor on a hilltop, just a mile out of Galad-Hirrim. Suddenly Delassen straightened.  
  
Arathor looked at him. "What is it?" Delassen frowned. "Shouting, movement, and the growl of an animal." The elves eyes drifted across the horizon till they stopped on a distant ridge.  
  
Arathor traced Delassen's eyes and looked at the ridge. Suddenly something, no, more than one, mounted the ridge, though Arathor's eyesight wasn't as good as Delassen's, he could see by glancing at his elven friend's face, that it wasn't good. Delassen's lips moved. "Wargs." "Wargs?" "The horse of the enemy, Orcs. And a regiment of Orcs, no, Uruk-Hai too, are following. But the wargs are faster and will be here soon." Arathor focused his eyes, but still couldn't quite, no, he saw them. Fear crept out of a dark corner inside of him, but a resolve followed. He dashed back to get his sword, a present of Delassen's on his twelfth birthday. Delassen's voice rang out clear. "No. Arathor, you are not yet matched for this." His voice quickly became urgent. "Arathor, you must run to Galad-Hirrim, and warn the men there. I'll hold them. Run!" "Delassen, you know you can't hold them!" Delassen turned, with a look on his face that Arathor had never seen before. It was fear, but a grim determination. "I know, but neither can the village unless you warn them! Now go! Hurry!" Arathor took a last look, then shedding a last tear, turned, and ran. His legs were long, and he was the fastest in the village. Plus, the exercise with Delassen had strengthened his muscles. Delassen drew his elvish blades, stopped, and remembering Arathor's sword, and ran over to it. Then drawing his bow, he fired. An orc dropped from his mount, then another. Delassen fired, his training put to good use. He fired again, then again, and again, with every shot taking a toll. Then they were upon him. He picked up Arathor's sword and relaxed, then twirled around and cut an orc of his saddle, then stabbed a warg through it's brain. Another, and Delassen cut it's feet out from underneath it, then stabbed the rider through the leg. Another approached. The elf pulled the sword close to him, and dove and rolled to his bow, stood, and shot the orc through the back, and then the warg. He turned, nailed another, then another. He slid the bow to his back then, and drew the sword, and slashed a warg's head off, then slicing through to the orc.  
  
Arathor was running as fast as he could. At a quarter of a mile he stopped, and glanced back. He watched as an arrow flew strait into an orc, and then as Delassen picked up his sword. Arathor turned and continued running. He saw the village, and that lent him a burst of speed. A man stood, and saw him running, the boy's face as white as Gandalf's beard. "What's wrong lad?" the man asked. "Orcs! Uruk-Hai! And Wargs!" Arathor gasped. The man clutched his pitchfork, then clasped Arathor in a refreshing hug. "Now run on! Your day isn't over yet! Go warn more, and I'll raise the ex-soldiers." Arathor nodded and ran off.  
  
Delassen slashed another's face, spun and drove the blade into it's animal's chest. Fifteen, now sixteen, wargs lay dead, strewn about him. Arathor's sword was sharp, and Delassen was proud of it. He sliced another. Five wargs were coming. He drew his bow and fired, again, then another. The remaining two kept on, and Delassen dispatched them quickly. He glanced back, and saw Arathor still running, almost to the village. He slashed another warg down. On an impulse, he ran to the edge of the hill. Twenty more wargs. And at least two hundred orcs/Uruk-Hai were coming. He drew his bow again and fired ten arrows, two at a time. The shots took their toll, and the wargs slowed, then kept on. Delassen slid the bow back to it's proper place, then tucked the sword into his belt. Then he ran. He glanced back. The wargs were as fast as he'd heard, and they were gaining. He whirled around, drew the bow and dropped four warg riders. Then he put it back and kept running. He spotted the town, and sped up. A group of scantily armed men were gathering. Only twenty as of yet! Delassen turned and fired two more arrows, then kept running.  
  
Arathor dashed from house to house, raising the alarm. He turned and looked. Delassen! He'd made it. The elf was running fast. Two wargs suddenly mounted the hill. Arathor watched as Delassen turned and dropped them, then continued running. Arathor turned and went back to raising the alarm. In ten minutes, the whole of the village was raised, and the "militia" gathered at the edge of town. Only thirty-eight men to so many Orcs. He ran up to the line. "What are you doing here boy?" asked a man in his forties. "I'm here to fight." "You're too young. Go to the women and children, and flee with them to the fort." "I can fight as well as any man here." "This is no time for fibs. And this is no place for a boy of ten." "Fifteen." "Whatever. This is no place for a lad of any age. Go to the fort!" "Arathor!" cried the familiar voice of Arathor's father. "Go find you mother! I know you can fight, but the women will need any protection. Go my boy, tell your mother I love her. And I love you too, son. Now go!" Defeated, Arathor turned and jogged to find his mother. Then he stopped, and looked back as Delassen joined the lines. "Delassen!" The elf smiled. "Good job Arathor! Here is your sword, now go do your father's bidding!" Arathor caught sword, nodded, then ran to find his mother.  
  
Delassen turned back to face orcs. None had mounted the hill yet. He glanced at the preparations. Most men were farmers, with their longest pitchforks, grasped in their sweaty hands. A few had actually fought, and even less had ever been in the Gondor Army. A few were scared enough that their hands were shaking. Others simply stood and sweated, muttering last words to themselves. A few stood firm and had the determination. Those were the men Galad-Hirrim were depending on. "Look!" Delassen's eyes flashed to the crest of the hill. Orcs and Uruk-Hai were mounting the hill. Then they saw the little band awaiting them. The elf could imagine the humor the orcs were experiencing now. Delassen cried out. "Men! Ready your bows! Make every shot count! And when the enemy is near, resort to melee weapon. Stab strong and hard, and don't let your fear overcome you! Ready!" When a few didn't comply, Arathor's father spoke up. "Do as the elf says! If you do not, your women and children and homes will be destroyed. The elves were once the protectors of middle earth. Let the remaining few help to protect it again!" Delassen's heart leaped as courage and determination flitted across their faces, and their hands gripped the weapon with a will. But the orcs had had enough laughing, they were coming down from the hill at a march. The elf drew his bow back and aimed. "Aim true men! Every shot must count! Fire!" A cloud of thirty-eight arrows of all sorts flew into the orcs. Taken back by this surprising resistance, they broke into run. "Fire!" cried Delassen, but the cloud of arrows was shakier, and less aimed. The time of the bow had passed in this battle. It was now time to resort to the sword. "Draw your weapons!" The bow was dropped, and pitchforks emerged, and a few swords. Delassen waved forward. "Onward! Charge!" The men stepped forward and broke into run. The orcs lowered spears, halberds, and pikes, and sped up. The lines clashed at a run, and the line of men broke.  
  
Arathor reached the line of refugees. "Mother!" "Arathor? Arathor!" His mother ran back through the caravan and clasped her son in a loving and warming hug, nearly lifting him off the ground. "What of your father?" "He is preparing for the fight. He sent me to find you, and to help the few guards." Arathor's mother kneeled. "Did he say anything else?" her eyes about to fill with tears. "He said he loves you." The poor woman hugged her son again wiped a stray tear. Arathor knew his mother was stronger than most, and was a foothold for the other women in the caravan. She would hold the tears till another time. Arathor hugged her again, then dashed off to find a higher spot. His eyesight was better than most boys, due to his friendship with Delassen, and he could see the battle raging half a mile away. The lines had clashed. And, no! The men were split, and the orcs had surrounded both bodies! He searched the men for his father, then Delassen. They were fighting back to back, encouraging the men. A tear dropped from his face. But, like his mother, he had to stay strong. The men would most definitely be defeated, and the orcs would reach the women soon after. Arathor turned back and returned to the convoy. His mother saw him, then his face, and turned back. Arathor shoved any thoughts of defeat from his mind and turned to the task at hand.  
  
Delassen slashed an orc's face and glanced around, in a relatively free moment. Arathor's father was proving his skill, for nearly thirty orcs, and uruk-hai, lay dead around him. But two men could stop two hundred orcs. At least fifteen men had fallen already, and more were dieing every minute. Delassen stabbed behind him, then drew his bow, and in two seconds, dropped three uruk-hai that were pressing hard on the small body of men. The elf shouted out. "Men! We are nearly through! We have proved our skill to the enemy! Now let us hold out a little bit longer! For the women and children!" A cheer erupted and the men surged forward in a sudden boost of morale. Delassen leaped forward, stabbed, then twirling, slashing and spinning, he hacked a way to the other body. "Men! Join together!" the elf cried out. The two previously separated bodies of men became one and charged forward. The orcs turned to retreat, then suddenly came back and charged into the men, full force. Delassen, taken aback at this, looked ahead. No! Three hundred more orcs and uruk-hai were coming down the hill! The men had seen it too. But, to the surprise of Delassen, they didn't retreat, instead, they fought harder. Delassen's hope rose, and he charged forward, slashing and twirling his elven blades as fast as he could. Then, he paused. His hope fell, and the world seemed to stop around him. At least fifty Wargs, newly arrived, were leaving the orcs, and were heading to the women and children. His thoughts flew to Arathor, and he cried out. The world came back into focus, all his thoughts had taken the space of a second, and he slashed forward again, stabbing and slicing. Then there was a familiar cry. Delassen turned, and slowed to a halt. Arathor's father, surrounded, on his knees, and a small blade penetrating his back. A uruk-hai raised his blade, to behead the man. Delassen funneled all anger into his right hand blade and threw it. The blade flew forward, and pierced the uruk-hai's eye, instantly killing it. Then he ran, and leaped to the aid of Arathor's father. He drew the blade from the uruk-hai's eye, and spun again, slashing an are around the dyeing soldier of Gondor. "Delassen!" Arathor's father managed, in a dry, gasping voice. Delassen slashed an orcs heart, or what was left of it anyways, and kneeled to the father of Arathor. "I'm here." "Arathor, he's a good boy. Protect him, and care for him. Tell his mother and him, that I love them both, and hope that they may one day return to Galad-Hirrim." Delassen released a tear. "I will. Every orc in middle earth will pay for your death." The man nodded, his death just a breath away. "Give my sword to Arathor, on his sixteenth birthday, and show him how to wield it... Goodbye Delassen." Delassen wiped his eyes. "Goodbye." The father suddenly went limp. Delassen released him, and looked up. A small ring of the remaining men were fighting hard around him. The elf drew the sword from the ground, and slid it's sheath onto his belt. Then, sheathing his blades, he grasped the sword with two hands, and stood. "Retreat!" If they were fast, they might still be able to save the women and children.  
  
Arathor spotted the fort. "Mother! We're almost there!" Then he heard something. The growl of an animal. He whirled around, as fifty wargs dashed up the path, and stood between the fort and the women and children. He grasped his sword and shouted out. "Guards! Wargs! At the fort's gate!" Ten men ran up, and gathered the women into the smallest square, then surrounded them. Arathor glanced back. The wind had suddenly come up, and the flags of the fort were waving back and forth, flapping for all they were worth. "Arathor! Come! Get inside the square!" cried a guard. He ran over, but instead of finding relative shelter inside the square, he stood in the protecting ring. The guard looked at him, nodded his head, and turned back to face the wargs. The animals charged forward, surrounded the weak square, then smashed into it. The spears and pitchforks placed the guards in a good stead, for the wargs had a hard time fighting through it. But eleven men couldn't hold out against fifty orcs and their mounts. Arathor ran from place to place, stepping between the spears and stabbing animals, then their riders. At one such time, he was knocked down, and the wargs kneeled to bite him, but he stabbed it in the mouth, and rolled out from underneath it. The seconds seemed like hours, and minutes, days. His legs were tiring fast, and his arms wanted to fall off. But he couldn't stop. He spotted a hard-pressed section of the square, and ran over to aid. Suddenly, a warg pressed forward and snatched a guard, then pulled him away, and carried him off. Arathor dove forward, snatched up the fallen spear, and held it forward, pushing, and stabbing. At some places, the guards had fallen, and the women had taken up the fight. Three wargs were pressing down on him soon. He yelled and stepped forward, cutting, and stabbing. The animals backed off, but one suddenly crouched and leaped forward, catching him in the chest and pinning him on the ground. He could hear as his mother screamed, for fear of her son. The warg looked up, about to snatch away his mother, but Arathor drew his sword, and shoved the blade up the warg's throat. The warg stepped back, allowing him to pull out the sword. He stood, but then another jumped him. His sword was knocked away, and the spear was out of reach. The warg bent down to carry him off, when a long arrow pierced it's brain, and dropped the animal. Arathor grabbed his sword, and stood, and saw Delassen, his cloak flapping in the wind, and his arrows flying strait and true, killing an enemy each time. Then spear tips, and pitchforks appeared, and the remaining nine men from the thirty-eight, mounted the path and fell upon the wargs. The remaining guards surged forward, and finished off the wargs, then created a van guard while the women ran for the fort. Arathor followed. When he reached the gate, he paused. The gates weren't opening. He ran to it and rapped his sword on it. A small shutter opened. A guard stepped forward. "We need shelter! Hurry open the gates, for the wargs may be here any minute." The warden shook his head. "The commander says no." The guard stuttered. "Why? We are going to die out here!" The warden was shoved over, and the scraggly face of the apparent commander showed. "We don't have enough food, and supplies for you." The guard was nearly yelling now. "We have brought supplies, and can provide for ourselves. Now please!" The commander nodded. "Open the gates!" The gates swung back slowly. The women started to run in. "No!" cried the commander. "Food first! If we do not, the orcs may break the line, and we'd lose the food, and we'd all starve." The guard nodded, though, impatiently. The orcs had just mounted the path, and were about to break onto the vanguard. The beasts of burden carrying the food entered. Then the gates began to shut. The guard started. "What are you doing!" The commander opened the shutter again. "We have been rather low on food lately, and with this, we can hold out against this company of orcs. Thank you for your cooperation." The women surged to the doors, pounding and pushing, attempting to squeeze through. The other women simply sat and cried, others screamed. The guard yelled for the commander to open the gates. Arathor turned. "Delassen! The fort!" The elf turned, and immediately assessed the situation. "Hold the line!" he cried, and turned and ran for the fort. The Arathor ran to the line, and stabbed an orc, then looked back. What could they do now?  
  
Delassen drew his blades and broke into the fastest run he'd ever done. At a foot from the fort's wall, he jumped, and dug the blades into it. Then he ran up the wall, pulling forward with the blades. He mounted the wall, flipped onto the parapet, and slashed the guard's face. With a scream, the guard fell off the walkway. The commander ran out to look. "Kill the elf!" Delassen stabbed the guard to his left and kicked him into the guard behind him. Then he ran down the length of the wall, and leaped onto the stairs. Running down them, he threw his right-hand blade into the commander, and drew his bow. He fired, and killed the gate warden. The elf tossed the remaining blade into his other hand, and stabbed behind him, into the guard at his back. Then he ran to gate and spun the winch. The gates swung open, and the women, children, and vanguard retreated into the fort. Delassen turned and pulled his blade out of the commander, then ran to the other side of the fort. He mounted the stairs, drew his bow, and aimed at one of the remaining guards. The guard dropped the weapons and raised his hands. The other guards followed his example. The elf lowered his bow. "Pick your weapons back up, and run to help hold the gate!" Delassen then ran to the parapet behind the gate. At least two hundred orcs/uruk-hai stood outside the fort. "Arathor! Come here!" The boy dashed up the stairs. "Delassen! Where is my father?" The elf kneeled. "He is dead, lying in the battlefield." A tear dropped. "How?" Arathor stuttered. "He was surrounded, and stabbed in the back by a foul orc. He killed many orcs though, and without him, we wouldn't be here today. Rest assured, for he killed forty-eight of the enemy." Arathor nodded. Delassen clasped the boy's hand. "Now, you must leave this fort, and ride for aid." The boy nodded again. "Where?" "The nearest is Farilmar, but their army is off fighting the Easterlings. You must ride for Minas Tirith, and approach the King. He is the closest, and the best supplied. I and the best archers here with cover your escape. Now, ready yourself, you leave in ten minutes. You must arrive with the Gondorian Army within a week. More orcs are arriving as we speak. Now hurry!" Arathor wiped away a tear and nodded once again. Then he turned and ran for the stairs.  
  
The gate loomed before him, and the knowledge of the danger outside chilled the boy, but Arathor knew he must ride. He glanced up at the parapet, and nodded at his friend, Delassen. Then the gates opened, and he spurred the horse. The archers fired fast and hard, and relatively accurate. Arathor drew his sword as he left the gate and slashed a uruk-hai. The horse was a good one, and quickly plowed through the mass of orcs. Delassen fired again, and again, covering his escape. Arathor slashed again, then on his left. Then, with a final spur, he burst out of the enemy's lines, and raced for Minas Tirith.  
  
The elf stood on the parapet, watching as the hope of Galad-Hirrim sped away. Then he turned away, and left the walkway to face Arathor's mother, and tell her of her loss.  
  
The hours were long, and the night was cold. But Galad-Hirrim was going to die unless he stopped it. Arathor had traveled for a day and a half, and Minas Tirith should be in sight any moment. Once he had left the orc army behind, he'd had no trouble, for Delassen had killed the last of the wargs, and there would be no pursuers. He wondered how his mother was, and how the defenses were holding. He wondered if his father's sword was still in his cold hands, or in the charred hand of an orc. That thought sent a shiver through him. Then he saw it. The great white city of Minas Tirith, the place of Sauron's defeat, and of the coronation of Aragorn, descendant of Isildur. Two hours later, he finally arrived at the great gates. Arathor stared in awe them, for they were made of mithril, and were the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. Then they opened, and he galloped in. A guard walked over. "Who are you and what is you business. Why, you're but a boy!" Arathor nodded. "I am here, requesting the aid of the king, for Galad- Hirrim is destroyed, and the people besieged in it's fort. More orcs arrive every day." The guard nearly toppled over. "Orcs? How many?" "More arrive every day, there were six hundred when I left." "Follow me." The guard mounted his horse and led Arathor at a gallop for the palace. They arrived quickly, and the guard dismounted, then lead Arathor through white halls to the great hall. King Elessar, or Aragorn, sat upon his throne, talking with his advisor, but stopped when he saw the guard run in. "What is this?" The King stepped down from the throne and approached Arathor. "I am King Elessar, of the Gondor kingdom. Who might you be?" Awed by the grace and manner of Aragorn, Arathor kneeled. "I am Arathor, son of Galdir. I am come to ask for aid. Orcs have invaded, and destroyed Galad-Hirrim, and the people are besieged in the fort." "Orcs? They must have been sheltered by the warring Easterlings. How many?" "Six hundred, when I left, and more arrive constantly." Aragorn began to pace. "Who is in charge of the defenses?" "Delassen Misttess." Aragorn turned to face the boy. "If I am not mistaken, that is an Elven name?" "You are right sir. He is an elf, and the sole foothold upon which the fort holds." "You speak highly of him. And your sword, it is of elvish make, is it not?" "It is. Made by Delassen. Now sir, he requests your aid, for if you come, we can drive them out!" Aragorn nodded. "There is truth in what you say, but most of my army is in the east, under the leadership of Faramir. I only retain two hundred men, and twelve rangers." "Sir, that is enough! My father, who lies dead on the battlefield, slew forty-eight of them, and under the leadership of Delassen, thirty-eight untrained men killed over two hundred fifty of the enemy. If we do not arrive within the week, Galad-Hirrim will fall." Aragorn kneeled. "Your words are strong, and you yourself are the bravest boy I've met. We leave in an hour, and you will ride beside me." Arathor finally released his tears. "Thank you!"  
  
Delassen fired again, again, then another. The orcs had felled a tree, and now sought to destroy the gate. The archers had become decent shots in the last four days, and were picking off the orcs quickly. But the number of orcs had swollen from six hundred, to two thousand. The defenders only numbered thirty-five. Delassen glanced across the horizon for the thousandth time. Arathor must arrive within the day. Already, the gate was crumbling, and an hour's worth of blows would finish it off. Then he saw something on the horizon. But it wasn't the king, it was just two hundred more orcs and Uruk-Hai. He fired again. Then he saw eighty wargs separate themselves from the main body and charge the fort, rope ladders being carried on their backs. Delassen pointed. "Archers! To the west wall!" All but two archers left for the west wall, and opened fire, but the number of wargs was too great, and they would finally mount the wall, and the siege would be over. Then, over the hill, suddenly poured fifty-two horses! The banner of King Elessar waving overhead, they charged the wargs and cut into them. Delassen's heart rose. "Archers! Cover the Gondorian Cavalry! For Gondor!" A storm of arrows flew across, and at least twenty wargs fell. Then an infantry body poured over the hill and charged into the two hundred orcs. Caught by surprise, the orcs scattered, but the cavalry, finished with the wargs, fell on them, and wiped them out. Delassen dashed down the stairs. "Men! Follow me! Open the gates!" The gates flew open, and men charged out and smashed into the orcs.  
  
Arathor sliced another orc, and kicked another. He paused and glanced at the fort. Yes! Delassen and the remaining defenders had poured out of the gate! "Aragorn! Look!" The king cut an orc's head off, then looked. "You were right lad, your elven friend is a leader indeed. Perhaps we should help. Men! Charge! Cavalry! Follow me! For Gondor!" The King and his cavalry fell upon the orcs at the gate, and cut through to the elf warrior and his men, then they together pushed surged forward and destroyed the orcs there. The cavalry and the infantry joined together again and charged the remaining orcs. Now the element of surprise was over, and the fight was started. Delassen mounted a horse and joined Arathor. "You did it! Your father would be proud." Then, he lowered a spare lance from the fort stabbed forward. Arathor dashed an orc's brains out, then trampled two more. The orcs would regret this day.  
  
Delassen's eyes sparkled with pride as he watched Arathor fight like a champion. The boy's arms, well versed in wielding a sword, were performing terrible execution. Delassen turned to assess the situation. Two hundred twenty-nine men were fighting seven hundred orcs. But, the orcs were pushing back, and unless something happened, the siege would recommence. Delassen fell away from the line and galloped to Aragorn. "May I have the use of your cavalry?" The king nodded. "Riders of Gondor! Follow Delassen Misttess!" Delassen and the cavalry fell back, then swept around the flank of the enemy, and then hit the rear of the orcs. Hit by this sudden force from the rear, the orcs fled, and the infantry closed in on the remaining one hundred fifty uruk-hai. The cavalry fell upon the fleeing orcs, and within an hour, not one remaining orc or uruk-hai was left on the field.  
  
After the victory, Delassen separated himself from the joyous celebration, and approached Aragorn. "My King, if you had not come, all would have been lost. Galad-Hirrim thanks you." Aragorn smiled. "You have proved yourself worthy also. Your flanking attack defeated them. And you led the successful defense of the fort. Now, about your young friend Arathor. I heard his father died in the first battle." Delassen frowned. "Yes. That was one thing I wanted to ask you. The father was a soldier of Gondor, and the boy's dream lead in that direction. It is his sixteenth birthday, though he has forgot about it. If you would, I want you to give him his father's sword, and accept him into your army, and take him to Minas Tirith." Aragorn nodded. "I will do that. The boy is an exceptional one, and will probably rise to be a ranger. Now about you. You are an elf, one of the last in middle earth." Delassen nodded. "Yes. I have no desire as of yet to leave for the undying lands. My place is here." Aragorn nodded. "Then, if you would, I would like you to come to Minas Tirith, and become a general in the army there." Delassen nearly collapsed. "I would be honored." Aragorn smiled. "Then it is set."  
  
Galad-Hirrim was rebuilt, and the fort re-garrisoned. The orcs never returned to that part of Gondor. Indeed, it was many years before they resurfaced in middle earth. The boy Arathor is now twenty-two, and a ranger of the north. He is the youngest there, but one of the best. Delassen the elf is now living in Minas Tirith, in the council of the King, due to his several major victories, and the defeat of the Easterlings. Every year, he and Arathor reunite and visit Galad-Hirrim, and remember the height of their lives, the battle of Galad-Hirrim. 


End file.
